Shake
by Wingless Rain
Summary: The end has been reached. The future is as bleak and uncertain as ever, however, the scent of hope trails the winds.
1. Kick it

* * *

Kick it 

-

Things rarely work out as planned.

"This way, this way! Don't let the fucker escape!"

Things being the present, the past, but never the future.  
Gunfire. The sweet scent of death.

Sweating. Panting.  
It's never what it seems.

Brass bounce against the walls, roll all over the floor. Concrete and metal, joined at last in one, fatal, caress.

"I escaped once, and I'll escape again! You won't ever get me!"

Contingency plan.  
Etched way back in the mind. The cross was reached years ago, yet there never was a reason to resort to the final path. Run.  
Move.

Boots pound the metal. Guns are leveled, but not fired.

"Don't shoot in here, idiots!"

It doesn't end.

"I don't want to be blown to fuck, so get out your knives and hunt him down!"

Taunting. Drops of sweat.  
Shouts.

"You're all dead! You're all so very dead!"

Catwalk's reached, but left far behind in a matter of moments. Short legs aren't as fast as long legs.

"Stand still so we can kill you!"

Something sharp and heavy impacts with a wall.  
A yelp, then it continues.

"You've no idea what you're getting into, sergeant!"

Flesh taps plastic. Levers are pulled. Codes are inputted. A soft humming.  
Only now do I see things clearly.

-

Daedalus.  
It's an old protocol, fashioned several decades ago. Its purpose; protection, elimination, espionage, infiltration. Parts of the original were maintained, primarily to serve as a warning.  
Power is drawn from a total of eight plasma cells, and an auxiliary hydrogen fuel-cell. It has no built-in ranged weaponry, no obvious tricks, or even camouflage, but it's still the very finest of its kind.

The organic skeleton was ripped out, in favor of something more durable. Titanium beams mimic bones, but only one organ was deemed necessary for it to function; the brain, complete with the spinal cord, and safely locked within a new cranium of unbending metal. Everything was wired to it - limbs, sensors, armor control.  
Heavily armored, all the better to serve its masters.  
A special type of armor was developed, one that's equally resistant to all known kinds of abuse.

Chest, groin, thighs, shins, top of the forearms, and the upper arms are all covered in half an inch of self-repairing plastic, with a layer of super-secret armor sandwiched between it and yet more plastic.  
Completely secured within are a number of support systems, such as mono-molecular forearm blades, a bio-scanner, advanced motion-detecting implants, experimental fibre-bundle musculature, and memory grafts to allow seamless interaction with all, at the time of development, currently used weapons, vehicles, and equipment.

It's fast enough to outpace and outlast all living creatures, and physically strong enough to battle targets significantly larger than itself without contracting too much damage.  
Should things take a turn for the worse, a fail-safe device was installed, which allows it to detonate its power-unit. The resultant explosion is likely to vaporize both it and anything else within two-hundred meters.

Fast. Deadly. Survivable. Determined.  
Yet, despite all efforts, it wasn't possible to fully wipe its memory, or even erase its personality.  
It was dubbed First, code-named Daedalus, and sealed far away from prying eyes, until the day came when it was needed.

That day has come, at last.

-

Dizzy.  
Faint.

Stumble my way out of something cold, face struck hard by another something that I only vaguely remember.  
"Go! Go!" someone shouts to my left, but I have no idea what it wants me to do.

Nothing seems to work. Everything's out of place.  
A loud sigh, then I fall forward.

I can't remember anything.

"Get up, bitch!" it calls to me, like I'm supposed to know what it wants. Like I'm supposed to obey. Like I'm supposed to do something.  
Barely catch myself with my left hand, face on a collision course with the floor. Stopped, braced. In control.  
I'm crouched, somehow, and still unsure of what to do.

Sight returns, and I see the creature for the first time.  
It's a little man - a little, old, almost bald, man. A dim memory accompanies him.

Catch a glimpse of metal and plastic in the corner of my right eye. Someone larger, more threatening, than the little man has made itself known.  
Digits, blue lines. Trajectories. Ethereal, and if I concentrate, they vanish.

Its knife is held high, but it moves slowly.

"Bitch!" he's not exactly patient, and he's also decided to huddle beneath a massive control console. Wild eyes search me out, try to convince me to do things his way. "Kill him!"

Kill.  
My head twists in the armored creature's direction. Kill is an ugly word, a nasty word. It should not be.  
But it seems so familiar.

The helmet it wears conceals its identity, but the cry it emits tells me it's a male human, approximately thirty years old.  
And so it begins.

I rise to my full height, and in the same motion that my back stretches, I also move towards him, right arm extended away from my torso like a flagpole.  
We meet after a few seconds. His head hits my forearm, knocks him off balance.

It's not enough, of course, but I'm still not used to any of this.  
Take a step backwards, then I thrust my right arm into his unarmored stomach. He wraps around my hand, and the thought and feel of everything makes me queasy, but I see no reason to stop.  
My left hand comes alive, crawls up to his throat. Fingers spread, snake their way in beneath the collar of his armor. Notice that he's got something that I don't, but I can't place it.

Three more appear from behind him. Maybe they've been there for awhile - I don't know.  
There's a crunch, and I think I broke his neck. I didn't mean to. I don't know. I don't know anything.

"Finish them!" the little man commands. I don't want to do this, but I do. What.

The corpse drops, and I make my way over to the other three, slowly. My legs refuse to obey me, or maybe it's I who refuse to obey them.  
Past orders are disregarded, and the leader, a young, female fox, face covered in beautiful gray fur, opens fire on me. Her rifle spews death, but I don't feel what I should be feeling.  
Bumps, a few sharp impacts, but little else.

Dizziness overtakes me, and my head tilts dangerously to the left. Left. Always the left.  
I lose control over it, forced to watch them with my right eye only.

More soon join her. Beams of red lick the darkness. Flesh would be carved by it, but I remain standing. Same when a revolver unloads large-caliber rounds into my face. Scraped. Feels like something's been stretched out of proportions.

Arrival.  
Sharp stuff pops out of my arms, and a clumsy swing from my right hand splits open the fox's throat. Things happen, bad things.  
I'm not sure what, exactly.

It's all black and red, and the stench is awful, same with the temperature.

-

"You can't win."

"Educate me."

"I'll always remain. I'll always watch you, pretend to protect you. Keep you closer than your closest friend."

"Indeed. Your words assure me. I have the most fitting plan in store for you - why, one might even think that it was made especially for you."

"Enjoy your victory while you can. I'll come for you in the end, even if I have to defy both life and death to get you."

"You don't have to worry about those things, young one. Rest. Sleep."

"Not even hell can protect you from me."

"Welcome the fire."

-

My eyes snap open, and it's the worst joke ever made. They're locked on my hands, my gore-dripping hands. The remains of four people, decked out in standard combat armor, line the walls and floor all around me.  
On second thought, these aren't my hands - my hands aren't made of plastic, nor are they white, It looks like skin, but it can't be, because I don't feel anything.

"Thank Jesus for forgotten doomsday-devices," a very, very familiar voice mutters from behind. It's so familiar that I don't even need to turn to know who it is. "Get their shit, so we can move, my new partner in crime." A voice from ages past. Someone who should have been dead by now. Unfortunately, it seems like I saved him.

Why?  
That question has a very complicated answer, and I won't even bother searching for it until I've figured out where I am, who I am, and what's happened to me. Every moment hurts.

"Snively," another, even more familiar, voice whispers. It belongs to me. "Oh, poor Snively." Sheer force of will brings my gaze away from my mutilated and stained hands, and makes damn sure that they're both folded neatly across my chest, which, for some reason, neither looks nor feels like the chest I used to know. A moment of silence, for us both.

He shuffles for a second, but that's it.

It's my turn, and I kick it off by spinning on the spot. Hair, that's much longer than I remember, swings like a whip. It reaches well past my ass, and it, too, feels unfamiliar, like it doesn't belong.  
And there he is, just barely crawled out from beneath the confines of a massive control console. Remember.

I remember him.  
His name's Colin, but we've always called him Snively. Because of his dumb voice and idiotic way of doings things. Always sneaky, always backstabbing - never to be trusted, ever.  
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," I wheeze the words, "Snively."

He looks a lot older than I remember, and thinner.  
"Because," it takes him a little while to get up on his feet, at which point he dusts himself off, adjusts his green tie, then gives me a mean smirk, "I know the answer to every question in your mind, and I'm also your only link to the outside world."

His words make me curl my hands into fists.  
"You," I stutter. Speech turns to grumbles and barely-audible curses. Is he right? Is he wrong? What do I believe at this point? He couldn't harm me the last time we spoke, and I have no reason to believe that he's grown stronger over the years. "I'll let you live, for now."

A single nod, and the devil's own smirk.  
"Good," his right hand motions in the direction of the corpses. "Now, load up. We've still got to break out of this hell-hole."

-

VT2 - 2006


	2. The sky bleeds

* * *

The sky bleeds 

-

"Left here," Snively leads from the back, as always, stolen laserpistol in his left hand.

I'm his shield, armed with a rifle and a revolver. I have no memory of ever using either weapon, but I somehow know exactly how they function.  
It's very dark, the air's thick, and it's also quite cold. Snively's breath forms clouds of white.  
To me, however, it's as bright as day, and the air's pleasant, same with the temperature. So many questions.

"We'll soon reach the elevator," why did he venture here? My right shoulder's tapped. "Keep your eyes open, and be prepared for anything."

His warnings fail to make me feel, or even think.  
I remember what happened to the four that attacked earlier. Everything flashes by, heart break and scars. I've seen the scene before - no less than once before.

No sound.  
No movement. Silence.  
We pass another corner, the seventh, and there's the elevator he so desires.  
"Soon," he mumbles words, pushes me towards the metal doors. I poke the call button with my revolver's barrel, and it almost feels like a reflex, "soon we'll be away from this place. Soon."

He's nervous.  
My presence isn't enough to make him feel safe. I want him to feel safe, but he's not one of my friends. Friends. Enemies.  
I can't remember.

-

"You shouldn't strain yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"If you haul ass all day long, you'll eventually lose it."

"Take things slow. Stop and smell the flowers."

"Yeah, that kind of sums it up nicely. Just make sure you don't overwork yourself. It's not nice when I have to piece you together like this."

"It's a living."

-

Catch myself shaking my head repeatedly. A dream, maybe.  
"Move it," Snively shouts, then shoves me into the now-open elevator. Why am I here again? "More could arrive at any minute, so move."

It works out, somehow.

Stumble into the left corner, and don't even bother to turn around. My head's heavy, clouded. Things still haven't slid into focus, and I doubt they ever will.

Like a bad dream.  
"Why did you come here, Snively?" I listen to his mutters. A button's pressed. "More importantly, where are we?"

He frowns, then spits at the floor.  
"Your questions are almost as distorted as yourself," the doors close. "Simple, easy; you can, and will, protect me. Unless we run into some real hardware, you'll do your job just fine."

Metal grinds against metal.

"You didn't answer my second question," I'm dizzy again. "Where are we, Snively?"

His gun taps a wall.  
"You still haven't changed a bit!" it feels like I should be thankful, and I'm having massive problems judging his tone. Why? "You and he - the ultimate control freaks. Even after all this time, you still cling to it, like a baby to a breast full of milk," he spits a second time. "We're below ground. Maybe some hundred meters, give or take five to ten. It's an ancient vault, where the darkest of secrets are kept."

So very dizzy. My ears start to ring for no reason.

Snively drones on, but his voice sounds distant.  
"Twenty-one years ago, you were put on his table, and he improved you - made you stronger, tougher, less prone to malfunction and revolt," a loud sigh. He doesn't like his own words. "You've been eroded by two decades of mental reconditioning, upgrades, maintenance, experiments, and dreamless sleep," pain, emanating from somewhere within. Another broken memory. Something that feels so cold and sick. "However, you never snapped. You still retain some of your old self."

The rifle slips out of my hand, and I find myself face against the steel wall in front of me.  
Takes a few moments, but I gradually, slowly, slide down its reflective surface, and my fake legs whine in protest somewhere beneath.  
A face shoots me glares. I should recognize it, but I don't.

-

"Something wrong?"

"I had the most awful nightmare of all times."

"What happened?"

"You were all dead, but not for real. Someone forced you to live as lesser shadows of yourselves. You preyed on each other, because nothing else would satisfy your hunger and thirst, and everything was so cold and distant. It felt like a good-bye, and I didn't want to be a part of it, but I can't. I just can't. Can't let it go."

"Come here. Listen, nothing bad's ever going to happen to you as long as I'm here, alright?"

"But you were the first to go, then all others followed out of despair. I was all alone, but I couldn't join you. I couldn't even look at you, or anyone else. It was horrible."

"Your dream will never become reality, I promise."

"How can you promise something like that? How?"

"Because after everyone's dead, when he's crushed us all, and converted the survivors, I'll keep fighting him. He'll never get away with it, and I'll chase him through both heaven and hell if I have to."

-

Heaven or hell?

I stand again, supported by the tiny man called Snively. Both his hands are clutching an inappropriate area, and it appears that he's using me as a shield to avoid gunfire. It's true that I can't really identify the particular area, just like I can't really feel the cold air on my fake skin, but I know it's inappropriate. Programmed, maybe, or another memory.  
"Bitch!" he screams, voice full of doubt and panic. "Bitch! Do your job!" It's no use.

My ears hear, but my body doesn't obey. It's not even my body to begin with.  
So useless.

"Bitch, kill them!" nothing works. About six of them, armed with automatic weapons. I'm showered by pieces of metal, just as the walls and floor are showered by brass. Projectiles bounce, patter harmlessly against me and my surroundings.

Tilt my head to the left, regard the half-open steel door through the lethal storm.  
Full of holes. Some of it looks twisted, and it's obvious that they've fired for a minute or so. Two drop to their knees. Empty mags are discarded - quickly replaced by fresh ones.  
Then it repeats itself.

"I order you to kill them!" he can't order me to do anything. I lack the will to fight. "Please, kill them for me!" He also lacks the will to fight.  
He, too, is useless.

Why should I fight his war? I don't even remember most of him - all shadows and echoes, but no substance, no flesh. No joy.

It all dies down, slows down, blurs. Time's extended. Seconds turn into minutes.  
A bullet hits the door to my left, right on the triangular corner, turns itself into a wild ricochet. A moment of intense emotions. A moment where all I feel is an overwhelming urge to guard and protect. A nasty sound that belongs to tearing flesh.

-

Let's rock.

I've done this before.

I've left Snively behind to engage them. I was probably a soldier, or an officer.  
The rifle pumps slugs into armored bodies, and I don't need the silly grids to know exactly what parts the armor cover.  
Pierce knees. Split stomachs open.

The list of things I'm capable of only grows. I aim my two weapons at two different targets, without confusion. Squeeze the revolver's trigger lovingly, watch as the large-caliber round eats its way through someone's helmet, into the left eye.  
All the while, I'm laying down a divinely accurate curtain of fire with the rifle. Trigger's pulled so fast that I doubt anyone can follow my index in motion - an index which isn't really my own.

It's a semi-automatic weapon, but it doesn't appear that way to the onlookers.

Head's turned to the right, but I'm still fully aware of the final soldier to my left. Listen to his heartbeat, his breathing.  
Watch him without using my eyes. He hesitates, stares through his visor, turns to run.

Put a bullet in his neck joint the moment his back's bared. The other two on my right are already dead, it seems. Can't remember killing them, but I did.  
Counted the shots without noticing. Two rounds left in the revolver, zero in the rifle.

It happens to the best of us.

-

"About time," Snively mumbles. "All you needed was a bit of inspiration. A mental carrot, if you want." He speaks the words like a true gentleman.

Shuffling, groans - all from Snively.  
So I spin around, just to look at him, him and his dumb face.

The bullet fractured, and his dumb face has been shredded by tiny fragments. The majority of it seems to have struck his left elbow, because there's a massive stain on his white suit, and blood drips out of his sleeve. Blood. So familiar.

"What the hell are you gawking at, bitch? I don't believe my zipper's down, so," he lets his shitty laserpistol slip out of his left hand, and the inevitable collision with the floor tells everyone present how shitty it really is. Just a plastic thud, "discard your shit and re-arm. We've still go to break out of this freezer."

I'm about to say something, but decide against it at the final moment. Will tag along until we're clear, then it's time to extract some answers from his withered brain.  
"Fine," I spit the words straight into his face. Simply let go of my guns. Nothing fancy, just open my hands, then they fall and hit the floor with a much more satisfying metallic noise. Crouch down next to the nearest corpse, a female human in her late teens. Her head's busted, and the inside of her broken visor's stained by pieces of brain and red stuff. "I assume you have a plan of some sort, Snively."

Calmly grasp her assault rifle with the left hand, then reach my free hand into one of her many pockets. It returns with a fresh magazine. Struck gold.

"Oh, yes, I've got a masterplan," Snively wheezes.

-

VT2 - 2006


	3. Microcosm

* * *

Microcosm 

-

"Oh, fuck."

The surface's crawling with them, to the very extreme.

Not a single alarm was sounded, because they're dead certain that we won't leave alive.

Concrete bunker, surrounded by asphalted ground, electrified fences, and so many soldiers and robots that it's not even funny.  
Count them, from left to right.

Thirty soldiers, fourteen robots, one tank. Heavy weapons, anti-armor weapons; grenade launchers, large-caliber machineguns, plasma rifles.  
Mutters, whispers.  
'Is that who I think it is?' 'What's going on here?' 'When did that happen'  
So many questions.

A bereted someone seated atop the tank picks up a dumb microphone.  
"Surrender," her voice calls out through invisible speakers. Legs scissored beneath her, plasma pistol in left hand. High-ranked military officer, major, judging from an insignia on her chest armor. "You've already killed ten, and there's no reason for you to kill more. Just give up, and everyone can walk away from this in one piece."

Her words seem so far off.

"They'll kill me and scrap you," Snively whines from his strategic location behind my back. He's an expert at sneaky behavior and self-preservation, and it shows, since not even his pointy nose is exposed to any danger. "Alternatively, they'll bring you in and destroy what's left of you, while they torture me, and prepare to convert me into yet another follower."

He could be right. He could also be wrong. This could all be little more than a mistake. Maybe it's not as bad as it looks, and I'm just wearing some kind of suit. Another dream - a nightmare. They're my allies, and he's just trying to confuse me.  
Or.

"Stay alert," I whisper to the skulking creature behind me. But it could also be reversed. Not enough time. Not enough phase. Must decide, must conserve what's left. There's a fifty-percent chance that he's a friend, and a fifty-percent chance that he's an enemy, but he's all I have.

Lock eyes with the major.  
"How about letting us leave?" then it hits me.

-

"It's all over. We've lost, and he's won. There's nothing left, now. No dreams, no hope."

"You don't sound like the person I remember. What happened to you?"

"Other than losing an eye, an arm, and all but one of my friends?"

"Yeah, other than that."

"I hate you so much at times. I hate your ability to always stay cool and calm, even when the world goes up in flames around you."

"Someone has to."

-

I'm running, it seems. My memories tell me it's something I've enjoyed doing, to some extent. Maybe I ran a lot, or maybe I watched someone run a lot - I don't know.  
Snively's in my arms, and my feet pound the ground like pistons. We're in the cover of a forest, and we're going damn fast. Gun's not in either of my hands.

Faster.  
The mist's gone, finally, and I'm awake for real.

Faint traces of recognition.  
I've been in this place before, long ago.

"We're clear, bitch, we're clear!" Snively whines, and my almost instantaneous stop feels very much like a reflex. He's got his arms around my neck as if I'm one of his parents, and I can't say his touch pleases me in the least. "Jesus, you're fast!"

I feel stuff, now, for some reason.  
Spin around, fully expecting to see a fat hole carved through the forest, but there isn't one. I seem to have effortlessly dodged all intervening terrain, and probably jumped over a handful of trees that were in our way.

Amazing.  
"Let me down," he whines again. Realize I've got my left arm wrapped around his torso. Why, I don't know. Pull it away, and he almost falls - the only thing that prevents his descent is his grip on my neck. "Fuck you!" he shouts straight into my left ear, but it doesn't sound as loud as it should.

"I believe that a 'thank you' is appropriate at this point, Snively," unclasp his hands with my own. He shivers, but makes a poor attempt at concealing it. Takes him a moment, and I actually have to crouch down before he leaves me for real.

Realize the height difference as I rise to my full height again. There's also a lot of age difference, or so it feels.  
He's about four-and-a-half-foot tall; almost enough to reach above my chest. His face is covered in wrinkles, and he doesn't look even slightly happy. The shrapnel-wounds haven't healed yet, but the bleeding stopped some time ago. His eyes.

So very sad and dead.  
"What are you staring at?" he glares at me, then adjusts his white smock. Definitely white, with some red stains on it. I guess that's red. Maybe. Pants, colored tasteless. Could be either green or yellow. The tie around his neck's purple, I think.

"Trying to remember colors," his head tilts to the left. Snively. Snively's old, now. Not middle-aged, but old, as in wrinkles, canes, and wheelchairs. While my mind can't place his age, my eyes don't share that problem, and rate him as a human male, age fifty-plus. "You're fifty-plus, Snively, just so you know." A bad joke. A terrible joke.

My rewards consist of a suppressed chuckle and a frown.  
"You're not exactly young and vigorous, either," tie's adjusted, then he dusts himself off once more. His left hand reaches into one of his pockets, where it remains. "We got away from them, this time," he shines up, and pulls out his hand again. It's holding a small mirror, which he offers me without delay. "It's highly likely that they'll keep chasing us, and that's why I guided you here."

The biggest question of them all is whether I want to look at myself or not. On second thought, I already did - in the elevator.  
Extend an arm covered in white, the left one, fingers spread and ready for everything.  
"I don't think seeing my own face's going to change anything," he drops it into my palm anyway. "Who are 'they,' anyway, and why are you being chased, Snively?"

Another frown.  
"I've outlived my usefulness," he states things, and something gnaws at my mind, tells me that his words should have a hidden meaning to them. Blank. A nod. "I wasn't supposed to get this far, but now I've no choice but to see things through."

Birdsong, the sound of a strong wind moving through trees. There's not much sun left, it seems. Getting gradually darker.  
Another nod.

Snap back to reality, thankfully, then I bring the mirror to my face.  
First thing I notice is something that could be blue, then the fact that my face isn't covered in skin, but fur. Can't remember the color, or how it feels to touch. Another thing that could be red, orange, or yellow.  
I've got two tears on my forehead, and metal shows through them. Another tear, on my left cheek, shows yet more metal.  
"Strange," turn my head to look at the right side of it. "I don't remember this face, but it looks familiar."

"That's not flesh, by the way," Snively mumbles as his back turns, "and that's not blood, either. Just clever substitutes, made by a clever idiot." His right hand waves around wildly, and it's clear that he wants me to follow him.

Notice my awesome multi-tasking abilities.  
Fully able to walk, talk, and look at myself in the mirror at the same time.

"Where are we going?" so many questions, and most of them are related to our current plans. Unable to take my eyes off the mirror.

"I stashed some toys near here, just in case I survived the first encounter with death," the traces of him that remain are very different from the person walking in front of me. For example, my memories suggest that Snively prefers hiding and running over conflict.

Carelessly decide to discard the mirror as we move.

-

"We're here," he assures me, both hands in the air. Naturally, I'm the one who's forced to work, but it doesn't really matter at this point. Above, darkness slowly replaces light.

Casually snap some twigs and move others. He did this all by himself.  
A sharp blade pops out of my left forearm, and I use it to chop large branches into neat pieces. Even Snively's good for something when he puts his mind to it.  
Brush leaves aside, while he makes the world a better place by actually helping me out.

Four minutes later, and his treasure's been revealed to the world.

"Here," a deactivated and folded plasma rifle's tossed my way, contained within a gray, plastic case. Got it secured in my right hand before it's fully left his care. His head's tilted again, and he looks dangerously close to a smirk.  
"You'll want these, as well," he hands me a belt with four large pockets, obviously used to store ammunition cylinders, "and this thing," a shoulder-holster, complete with a fat handgun and several spare magazines. He points at a few other items that don't strike me as even slightly important. "Medical supplies, food rations, and a canteen."

He's got it all, and I'm surprised by my own lack of judgement. Maybe they don't look important because I don't need them. Maybe.

Lots of stuff remains, but we don't need any of it.  
"What now?" strap the holster in place, same with the belt. He surprises me by handing me yet another thing; a bandolier filled with large shells - grenades - and the compatible single-shot launcher. "Are we heading into a war?"

"It's so much worse than war, I'm afraid," the bandolier fits like a glove around my torso. "This is revenge, you see, and if at least one-percent of your brain's functional, you'll accompany me."

The obvious question.  
"Why?"

He stops what he's doing - drops all items, then clenches and unclenches his hands. His eyes turn to jagged pieces of rock.  
"Because he's the one that made you what you are today."

-

VT2 - 2006


	4. Drifting

* * *

Drifting 

-

His words still echo in my mind.  
A meaning should accompany them, but I fail to find it. Standard so far. Left shortly after Snively ate and drank some.

"We'll reach a shitty road soon," more assurance over the engine noise. Snively's smart, and it's thanks to his incredible foresight that we're riding a motorcycle, and not walking. He's seated in front of me, left hand wrapped around the steering bar, right one pointed to the left. "Swerve to the left, then follow the previously mentioned shitty road to reach our destination."

Helmets are for pussies, same with lights. A powerful magnet on my back, which appears to exist for only one reason, holds the plasma rifle's case, and I've got the grenade launcher in my left hand.  
Forest's not as thick as I remember, and there's a fat chance that he's the one to blame for it. Little more than a dirt track, and not nearly straight enough for any sane creature to feel safe at the current speed, but I manage just fine.  
We're both loaded with stuff, but I'm the one with the most gear - as expected.

Spot the road before he does.  
"Hang on," two words, then the left side of the bike's grinding against dirt and asphalt, somewhat supported by my left leg, with a nice display of wild sparks and pieces of black plastic that scatter on the wind. Snively shouts profanity, but sticks to the bike like glue. An expertly carried out swerve later, and we're on the road, heading towards wherever we're heading, without losing any noticeable speed.

Short moment of jerky traction.  
"Shit! Fuck!" a now-shocked Snively calls out, and I can't help but enjoy myself for some unexplainable reason. "Bitch, don't surprise me like that ever again - ever!" Could pat his bald head, but I don't feel like it.

Grin as the bike steadies itself. Feels very strange indeed to have this much power focused between my thighs, but there's a total of four very slight traces, much like scars, that tell me I've done it before. Long ago.  
"Wimp," he's shivering, and quite angry. Must be the shock of seeing things actually take shape around him. The road stretches to the south-east, and it seems endless, useless, and so very slow and dull. "Where are we going?"

Snively's right arm comes alive. His index aims itself dead ahead.  
"This road leads straight to Robotropolis," Robotropolis. A name that sounds familiar. "It's the place that the king of all idiots resides in, always watched closely by the worst line of bodyguards known to both mobian- and humankind."

I should feel cold and unsafe, but I don't. All I feel is the bike's grip on the asphalt. My mouth and mind both engage in unauthorized activities. Words slip, words that trickled their way out of somewhere dark and secluded.  
"So tonight's when it all ends," I want to remember, "when he's nailed to the cross he made himself so long ago," but I can't. What does any of this have to do with Snively's masterplan?

-

"Can you even stand?"

"I'm never giving up - that's for sure."

"We're both pretty bruised and broken. Why not call it a day?"

"Not until the score's either tied, or tilting in my favor."

"I'll break your arm again - I guarantee it. Think this final chance's worth all the offered pain?"

"It always is."

"You've finally learned. Get up, so we can finish this."

-

Life is a complicated thing, filled with branching paths, hidden alleys, enemies and allies in equal measure, and not a moment available to waste. The choices you make, the things you do, the roads you tread - they'll all echo until you are no more.  
Found myself on a collision course with a tall gate, guarded by two mechanical golems of archaic design - standard weapons and armor template-robot, abbreviated to SWAT-bot.

Up in the air, sailing some fifty meters above the gate, left arm wrapped around Snively. He's amazed beyond words.  
Right hand's holding the grenade launcher, which is both loaded and ready, not to mention aimed down at the left-most of the robots. Bike's still spinning, still heading for the right-most robot, still not quite ready to smack it to pieces, still so very far away, and then I squeeze the trigger.

Recoil doesn't exist, and the shell falls at the same speed as I, which also happens to almost match the bike's speed.  
"Good god," Snively whispers, then things detonate. A bright flash, twisted pieces of white-hot metal. Mechanical whining, and the second robot's hit hard by the bike, which effortlessly cleaves it in half slightly above the pelvic joint.

Upper half's sent spinning hard into the fat gate, which triggers a very loud alarm, and a nice hail of scrap rains down in the immediate area, just as I touch down with a thud, Snively still held in my grasp.

My body forces itself into a crouch to absorb the fall, and I swing the grenade launcher downwards with the rest of me, a motion that flips it open and ejects the spent shell casing instantly.  
Snively's shivering, and I'm forced to let him go to dextrously withdraw a fresh shell from the bandolier. Eight left.

Idiot stands around like he's got nothing better to do, and even takes a few, dizzy steps around me in a semi-circle.  
"Fucking awesome!" he cries to the heavens above, then his right hand pulls out yet another shitty laserpistol from one of his many pockets. "Now we've got maybe ten minutes before everyone's up and ready."

It's all so very familiar.  
The metal, the concrete, the asphalt. A bad dream. Stay down, ponder. What am I doing here?  
"What am I doing here, Snively?" set the launcher down to my right after reloading and closing it. A bad dream. "Who are we going to kill?"

Sigh, head scratching.  
"You're here because I told you to follow me here," he points his gun at the gigantic spire that towers ahead of us. "It's that simple, you see. You've got stuff wired into you that makes you feel a need to protect your commanders - in other words, me."

"So," my turn to sigh, but it sounds fake and empty, "what's my purpose for this evening, master Colin?" Grinding, likely teeth.

He's bashed me in the face with his gun before I've got time to blink or even mouth another word.  
Blow's strong enough to knock me backwards, force me over on my back, then he leaps onto me, and seats himself on my chest, pistol barrel aimed firmly and quite accurately at my left eye.  
"Don't ever say anything like that again, or I will kill you," his face is carved out of stone, haunted, and his angry expression was stolen from a nightmare. "I've had enough of all this shit, enough of the hatred, forced commands, orders, abuse, unwanted attention, killing, war, pillaging, and broken dreams. That's why I'm here today, at this time," his index plants itself on the trigger, "that's why I'm going to kill all my ghosts, and your ghosts, as well, only you can't remember them, because your mind's been fucked to pieces."

A laserbeam to the eye. What good will that do, really? Maybe I've got a secret weak point behind it; a passage straight into what remains of my brain, or a switch that shuts me off if exposed to light and heat.  
So welcoming. Grin at the ancient human, for all I'm worth.

Maybe he'll pull the trigger. Maybe it will prove something, to someone, somewhere. Someone who isn't me, and who's got a working mind. Something that matters. Somewhere that isn't this cold and lonely.  
"Do it," it's an order from me. It's now obvious to me that we were never friends, rather, we were, and still are, enemies. "Do it, Snively. End my miserable existence."

It all comes down to this. It's an epic moment, and I make no effort to escape or defend myself. I want it to end.  
I don't deserve this.

Cold stare, index pulls back on the trigger.  
A moment passes.

And another one.  
Nothings seems to change.

"You're a real bitch, and you've always been a real bitch, but," his index strays from the trigger, and I can't say his decision makes me happy in the least, "you're one of few people I ever respected - for real. Not mock shit, like my uncle, but for real."

Doubt my face expresses the things I feel inside. He takes his sweet-ass time to climb off of me, then offers me his free right hand. Accepting it wouldn't accomplish anything, just like talking to him.  
Decide to give him the silent treatment - punishment for not doing the world a favor.

"Our dawdle gave him a fuckload of time to prepare," he gesticulates wildly as I get up on my feet again, grenade launcher in left hand. "We'll need to hurry, so he can't lock himself up, or escape. With a bit of luck, he still hasn't figured out who's causing all the disturbances."

Figure out another of my forced toys.  
It's a calendar, and a watch. Thirty-first of October, with two hours left before midnight strikes.

-

VT2 - 2006


	5. Beneath the metal sky

* * *

Beneath the metal sky 

-

So many bloodstained memories from this place. The stench is fresh, rough, because it never fully left.  
Giant hall, two entrances, one on each far side of the room. Four pillars stand in the middle, for some reason that is only known to its maker.

Metal feet.  
"Intruders. Eliminate with extreme prejudice," a phalanx of roughly mansized robots whine in unison as I force open the spire's front doors with my hands and nothing else. Count nine, all roboticized mobians of various races, ages, and heights.  
Disappear.

Level the launcher at the center of the mass the moment the doors part for real, then fire before Snively's got time to whine or bitch.  
A second of waiting, a bright flash of light, the sweet sound of a detonating grenade, then they turn to pieces of scrap and junk that scatter all over the massive hall's floor.

Two steps, whip the weapon forward, which parts the two components. Spent casing ejects itself and plants a brass kiss on a nearby pillar of steel.  
Reloaded, and set my aim on another unit of dumb robots before it's bounced.  
Snively, located just behind my back, as always, says something stupid, tries to tell me that we're being attacked from two directions at once, and I lend him my left eye, and an automatic handgun that seamlessly danced all the way from its holster into my right hand.

Arms crossed, right aimed for the left, and left aimed for the right. So gangster.

Smirk like an imbecile as I squeeze the handgun's trigger. Large-caliber death erupts, punches huge holes through the robots' tinfoil armor. Seven fall on my left, but more quickly take their place. Air's filled with rattling pieces of metal.  
Third grenade of the day goes off, and pierces the torso of a blue-armored robot, but it doesn't detonate.  
Silly machine takes a few steps backwards, ends up with its back against the wall, then slides down it.

I wait, but nothing happens, and the survivors return our fire.

"Shit!" Snively yells. They're just as accurate as I remember, and just as easy to crash. Shitty lasers flare, but they've all decided to aim for me.  
To my surprise, the beams are reflected in all directions the moment they strike my shell.

A step forward, closer to the right, while maintaining the destruction to my left. Accurate firing knocks down another four, and they still haven't realized that their weapons are useless. Decide to get the party started.  
Train my pistol on the grenade-victim at the same time I whip the launcher forward, ejecting the fourth casing.

Fire a single round at it, which strikes home, thanks in no small part to dumb grids and light-blue information windows.  
I enjoy this.  
Allow myself to hear the explosion, the howling of my gun, and the loud boom that turns everything on the right to junk.  
So much of it that it hurts.

Snively's blazing away with his dumb pistol, which would normally do miniscule damage, but he knows exactly where to aim; sensors, joints, power cables, energy cells.  
One robot has its ammunition cell, cleverly mounted on the outside of its left arm, detonated, and takes two of its friends with it in the resultant explosion.

Pass both my guns into the air, then swap hands while going down into a crouch, left arm fully extended and pointed at the few machines that remain standing.  
Still not enough time or hands to reload the launcher, but the gun serves me well once more. Short bursts, four rounds each, rip the final three robots to pieces, pieces that clatter to the floor and join the mess already in play.

Flip a tiny lever close to the gun's trigger, and I swear I've never used a weapon like it before in my life.  
As expected, the severely drained mag drops to the floor with a plastic thud. Pass the weapon into my right hand, rather, hang it from the pinky finger, using the trigger guard, while retrieving a new shell from the bandolier - number five - and a fresh mag from the shoulder-holster.  
"You're so much better than I expected," Snively comments from somewhere behind. Hear his feet shuffle metal and plastic around, and it's obvious that he's admiring the scene. Slide the grenade-shell into place, then place the grenade launcher to my right. "Accuracy, reflexes, suppressed self-preservation - all far exceeding those of the old you."

Switch hands once more; clip into right, gun into left. They merge seamlessly, and become a new entity far more deadly than its parts may suggest.  
Retrive the launcher, then spin on the spot, end up with my eyes locked on Snively.

He gives me an insane grin, then he leads us onwards, into the belly of the machinebeast.

-

Third floor, out of eight.  
"Freaks to our left," Snively's calm, now, too calm. He takes careful aim before each shot, and makes sure that every beam fells a can-collection. Aim. Fire. Collapse. Aim. Fire. Collapse.  
Repeat.

A blaze of short bursts, since full-auto was a bit too taxing on my limited ammunition.

We're heading down another corridor, in the direction of an elevator shaft that leads to the upper floors, back-to-back - Snively on-point, while I guard the rear.  
So many broken shells, so many bullet holes. So much brass everywhere. More of it leaps from breech to walls and floor, a saltation of sorts - a sweet, sweet dance of destruction. Two cameralike heads are ruined by one burst.  
The further we get, the more I remember.

This is my second home.  
The pathetic zip of Snively's laserpistol assures me that he's still on the case.  
"Why isn't this place locked down yet?" broke my silence awhile ago, when I realized he's actually planning to see things through. Don't even look over my shoulder anymore.

I know the answer before his mouth opens. Our pace continues, and I scrap another blue robot.  
"He's a sick fucker, and probably enjoys watching us ruin his army of junk," their ranks are thinned, and pieces of them line the floors we've visited. "What we've faced so far's been pieces of his trash bin - failed prototypes, ancient models, discontinued marks, rejects - you name it."

Nod, then we stop.  
Snively punches a bunch of buttons, and the doors behind me slide open slowly.

Can't explain what occurs next, but it's like I hear him cry out before he's even realized what's about to happen.  
My left upper arm's pressed against Snively's throat, and he's stuffed so close to the right-hand wall it's scary, same with myself. Just in time, it seems, because the space we occupied half a second ago's slashed apart by what looks like a giant blue and white saw, that rends both the ceiling and the floor as it passes down the corridor.

More junk, and pretty sparks.  
First impulse is to fire a grenade, which I duly do. Aim's set somewhere in front of the thing, and the launcher's both fired and discarded with the same motion.  
I'm running towards it just as the grenade detonates and blows chunks out of the floor. Target's knocked away, further down the corridor, but somehow manages to land on its feet. No matter.  
I've got my gun in hand and firing on full-auto as I close on it.

More sparks, brass. Snively fires an accurate beam that strikes its left knee joint, but it doesn't appear to do any real damage, or even knock it off balance. Heavy stuff.  
Memories of blue. Memories of speed, grace, agility, and a smart mouth. Torn, but it doesn't matter. Unload even more rounds into it, but most bounce right off its armored shell, accompanied by sparks and tiny bits of metal.

It turns, but it's too slow, and I've got the upper hand. Riddle its face, its familiar face, full of dents, cracks, tears, and a total of three holes. The onslaught makes it reel backwards, and I feel so very sad and dead within for some reason. Right arm's raised towards the ceiling, a sharp blade makes itself known with a metallic whine, and I bring it down in an apocalyptic arc, eyes locked with the emerald-green sensor lenses of my foe.

A face so cold and sad finds my own.  
It shouldn't mean anything, but it does, and it makes me hesitate - me, hesitate. Not good.

It's on its feet and swinging its arms at me. Block. Clash with my blade, shred its left arm, and barely get out of the way for a razor-sharp foot aimed for my groin.  
Quick stab, to the head. Pierce through the right sensor lens, but it has no effect, and sharp claws, belonging to its still-functional right arm, tear into my chest, bury themselves deep, close to a grenade-shell. No pain.  
Bring my gun up to its head, shower it with more metal. The short distance completely nullifies its armor, and what was once the left part of its head is rended beyond recognition.

Machinery shows through it, and I'm the only one who's got an unoccupied arm. Gun slips through my fingers, then my hand eagerly puts itself to use tearing out parts of its insides. So messy.  
Fingers dig through the holes, snap the half-molten metal remains with ease. Find cables, pieces of plastic - all of it needs to go, but the more I rip, the more it hurts. It makes no sense.  
It grows sluggish, remaining arm jerks and twitches. A sudden spark from within the head tells me I'm on my way to victory.

Things aren't right.  
Wrestle my right arm free, swing it downwards to sever the claw, then use it to shave layers of metal from its head.  
It mumbles things, letters, almost words, but there's no time for that.  
Left hand grabs its throat, then the right one follows it up with several strong punches to the remains of its head. One. Two. Three. Four. Pieces pour from it, and its legs go haywire from the abuse - twist in all directions. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. The rain doesn't stop, and my insides are just as broken as the robot I'm pummelling. Nine. Ten.

Enough's enough.  
Stab its chest, use the blade to carve a nice hole into the secondary control unit. Twist it around, snap things by the dozen. Feels like something's missing.  
"A," it mumbles, words heavily distorted by static and the sound of metal against metal, "l."  
The game's boring, tedious, and I bring my right fist as far back as it can go, then I slam it with all my might straight through the robot's chest.  
"Tha," terrible joke. Fluids leak from its many holes and rents, "u."

Another strange thing happens, and my body freezes in place. Stuff comes crashing down, inside me. What have I done?  
What? Destroyed another enemy; one of many. What have I done?  
Things, stuff - emotions. I don't remember what they feel like, but I remember one name, and it's regret. What have I done?  
Why? No, this isn't what it looks like. It can't be, because. Because. What have I done?

-

"I want you to promise me something."

"I'm not good at keeping those."

"Yes, you are, but you're very reluctant, even after all this time."

"Yeah."

"Promise me that if I end up as one of them, you'll put me out of my misery, so I won't harm others."

"I can't promise that."

"Why?"

"Because, truth be told, I'll join them long before you."

"You're a clown. A very sad clown."

-

Flash.  
Returned completely. What have I done?  
I'm hunted by them, by those, by the words. Where am I?

"Get up!" Snively shouts. One of his feet impacts with my left ankle. "Get up, bitch, we don't have all day!" So dire, so real, so threatening, yet I don't care.  
I've done something horrible, but I can't place it. Just sitting.

"No"  
Just sitting. Face rested against my legs, arms clasped around them like they could be stolen any minute. My hands are shaking, and quite wildly. What have I done?

"Get a grip on yourself!" another shout, followed by another kick, to my left leg. It won't work.

"Nope"  
Refuse to move. Listen to the sound of my teeth clattering against each other. Blade's still out, and covered with a mix of fluids that slowly trickle down my left leg, drop by drop. How much of this is real? How much of this is a fantasy? How much of this is the real me? How much of this is the new me?

An extremely frustrated shout.  
"You fucking idiot!" one of his knees hits me in the left temple, then he throws a massive temper-tantrum. "You fucking doll! I thought you were better than this, but no," another, stronger, hit to my temple knocks me over on my side. A foot buries into my stomach, but I still don't care even the slightest, "you had to go and get a fucking nervous breakdown - mental backlash, complete, utter, stupidity!" not satisfied with the mild violence, he leaps onto my head and starts jumping up and down on it.

Every touch-down feels like a release.

"It was already dead!" don't care. Another touch-down. "You couldn't have saved it even if you'd tried - just too fucking far off!" he steps down, and decides to start stomping on my head instead. "I saved you, fucking bitch," he's crying, "I brought you through the fire, and if it weren't for me, you would have been just like it! Not even a trace," his right foot winds back, then it connects with my forehead. Something rattles, and it bounces against the wall behind it, "of your former self would have remained, and this is the fucking thanks I get!?"

"I didn't ask to be made into this," state firm facts, things that don't hurt either of us, since we both appreciate the truth. "I didn't ask for you to help me."

And he freaks, kicks small objects around - shows how superior he really is. Heads of thrashed robots, pieces of the blue construct, shattered limbs, ruined torsos.

And I just stay here, here on the cold, metal floor, like the waste I am.  
I killed someone who was important to me, at least during my past life. Maybe it was already dead; maybe it still held life - now I'll never know.  
Snively might have spent some time tinkering with me before he woke me up, or even when I was made, or during my real life, but it doesn't matter, because I killed someone. Murderer.  
The fact will always remain that I murdered someone very important. Murderer.

Slayer.  
"Why me?" there are no other paths.

Deep breaths, mixed with quick breaths. He clears his throat, snivels, then spits something wet, heavy, and large onto my forehead.  
"Because you were the best, and you never gave up - ever!"

-

"Because after everyone is dead, when he's crushed us all, and converted the survivors, I'll keep fighting him. He'll never get away with it, and I'll chase him through both heaven and hell if I have to."

-

I've never had a choice.  
Not even the present offers me a choice.  
"You're right," a face tracks me, refuses to allow me passage. I'm being forced by my mind. "I've never given up, but I'm not myself anymore." Cheap excuse.

"Do it," he wheezes, "for your memories, if nothing else. Let them all rest."

-

"You've finally learned. Get up, so we can finish this."

-

We've moved, but things are different.  
Don't know when it happened, but it sure did. My hands are clutching something warm, something rare and deadly.  
An unfolded plasma rifle, fully loaded and ready for use. A soothing, green shine emits from the half-exposed core, and I wield the heavy weapon like it's made out of paper. Pistol's back in its holster, but there's only one magazine left for it.

Rifle's got enough plastic for about twelve shots, which is more than enough.

The walls seem to possess a life of their own, and shoot me glances, but I'm smart enough to know it's only part of my imagination. Not exactly roomy, which must be why the grenade launcher's nowhere to be seen, same with the bandolier.

"Seventh floor," Snively informs me, voice chilling and distant.

Everything's cold and sterile.  
A long, empty hallway, one that leads to an extremely familiar doorway. Been here several times before, and almost always on my own.

We pace it without words, because they aren't necessary at this point in time.

Step inside, prepare to see things for what they really are, but there's a surprise waiting for us.

Snively gasps, and is almost brought to vomiting.

-

Large, open room, with not a single piece of furniture.  
There's a massive window directly in front of us, behind the surprise, and an elevator door, with a big eight etched onto it, on the very far left.

"I've waited for you," it whispers, and it sounds so sad, so very sad, like it's never known happiness. "I've waited this long, but this day proves that I was right for waiting all those years"  
It's not exactly a robot, but it's not a mobian either. Something in-between, that exists in a borderland. Clearly, it's not even remotely sane.

"Who are you?" I call to it, still unsure whether it's an enemy or not. Faint traces of recognition, an unpleasant taste, like there's something I forgot to do.

"Names aren't important, and your mind's dead, anyway," it folds its arms, both of which are somewhat mechanical. An empty eye socket watches me, along with a red sensor lens. "What's important is that you got here, and," it hovers a few inches above the floor, and there's one trait that sparks another memory, one that's as warm and sticky as blood, "just in time, I might add. We were about to start without you." It makes no sense on any plane.

Even my broken mind is less fractured than this creature's.

Calmly raise the plasma rifle, aim set on its head.

"Yes," more words from it. Snively shivers to my left, "we were about to start without you, and that would have been a waste," it spins around on the spot, revealings its mutilated back, which isn't only stripped of most organic parts, but also fitted with an overabundance of plugs and other mechanical interaction devices. So very sick, "but now we're all gathered, and things couldn't possibly look brighter."

I knew this creature once, before it was changed. Twisted, perverted, married to the machine.  
Still.

No movement.

Grit my teeth, then I blast at its head. A tendril of blue-white energy licks out of the rifle's barrel, but less than half of it hits, and that half's almost completely absorbed by a crackling, invisible barrier, located a short distance from my target.

"Get him!" Snively shouts. He disappears to my left, while I dash straight for the creature. Two beams of red strike home, but only one gets through the field, and inflicts less than a burn on the creature's chest. There's no response - no pain.  
Right arm's raised, pointed at Snively. A second later, six thin beams of blue light are discharged, that cut straight through the floor in my human ally's general area. Needle laser.

Because it's not quite sane, it didn't put me on the top of its priority list - a mistake it will pay the devil for.  
Leap straight for it, my body successfully bypassing the field that protects it from ranged attacks, then I strike its head with the butt of my rifle as I fly past it.

Metal connects with flesh, and the noise is sickening to the extreme. Like an egg cracking open.  
My blow sends it flying a good meter backwards, and a healthy mix of teeth and blood fly in all directions, but most of it ends up on the window and the floor.

"Kill him!" Snively urges, and I'm willing to oblige for once.

Land hard and unsteady, but without losing any of my momentum. A short leap to my left, aimed to place me only centimeters away from the fallen creature. Still resisting.  
It refuses to die, and rolls out of my way. Fast.

End up with my back exposed to it.  
A sharp foot catches me between the shoulder blades, and I fall forward, rifle lost somewhere. Hear things whine into gear behind - the needle laser. Out of time, just as my face bounces against the floor.  
It's fired again, and two of the beams hit Snively - carve his left forearm to bloody shreds.

Seeing the little man hurt, bleeding, wounded. I snap, for real.

Right hand curls into a fist. Roll, to the left, stare at the ugly thing for a tiny space of time, then somersault straight for it. Fast. Somehow manage to catch its chin with my heels as I propel myself over it. Land behind it, both blades out and ready, hungry for suffering. A sudden spin, to grant it death. We think the same thing, and I'm greeted by a half-turned torso and a slow arm left arm, both of which are unable to stop me. Slash two nice gashes across its chest, but, surprisingly, the blades don't pierce all the way through. Scraping, whining. Stab for its face with my right blade, just as it turns completely, but its left palm produces a blade of its own, which forces me into an orgy of sparks. While this is taking place, I deliver my left fist into its soft stomach like a sledgehammer, an act which stuns it for a good second and a half.

Left knee finds its groin, then the right knee mimics its sibling.  
A spin, followed by an arced blow from my left arm, severs its right arm at the shoulder in a torrent of blood that stains everything a deep, red, color. No pain.  
Slam my head against its face, with another nasty crunching noise. Balance's lost, perception's decreased temporarily.

At long last, it's got no defenses left, and I retract my right arm as far as it's physically possible, then stab it forward - a move that buries the blade and my fingers into its chest with a loud, metallic whining, courtesy of its now-shattered ribcage.

-

"That wasn't expected," the ugly and dying thing mumbles. Fingers dig their way further into its body. A moan, but nothing more. "However, there's more to this body than meets the eye." What?

A bright beam of energy reaches out from its fake eye, connects with my face - close to my right eye. Dangerously close. The right shoulder, without even so much as a stump left of the arm, springs into life, and a yellow liquid seeps its way out of the wound, forms an entirely new arm in seconds. Insanity. Refuse to idle, and slash for its throat with my left arm, which lays open its jugular, or what serves as it, anyway. A spurt of red drenches my face and torso, and it, too, feels familiar.

Four red beams, all aimed for its right knee joint, and it's clear that Snively's still in the game. As expected, the creature falls forward, which frees my right arm and crushes any plans it might have had.  
Left elbow strikes the top of its head, and there's a third crunch - the loudest yet.  
The pressure loss, apparently, has no effect on it, and it keeps resisting the inevitable, even as my left elbow finds its cranium again.

Crunch's satisfying to the extreme; brings back so many memories.  
I've got my right hand around its throat, and the pistol in my left before I know it, and things look set to be determined, but the creature remains as expressionless as ever.  
So I switch it to full-auto, then aim the barrel at its head. Squeeze, as we look at each other once more. Something.  
Something's changed.

Brain matter, blood, and pieces of bone drip out of a nasty cut on its left temple, and the sickness is rising within me again.  
Try as I might, I am unable to pull the trigger.  
"It's you," a weak voice mumbles, and it's the sweetest sound I've ever heard. It's changed, of course, because age does that to people. "It's really, really you. You didn't forget. Not even after this long did you forget."

I know this creature - him. I've forgotten everything else, but not this one. Impossible to do so.  
"Never, because," another piece of the jigsaw, "I promised I wouldn't."

Silence.  
Snively doesn't dare to intervene.

His face twists into a small smile.  
"I knew you'd come. I knew it," even if I release my grip, he'll die soon. Too much damage. "You're here, and that means you've silenced the other one, and that only he remains." So perceptive. So smart. So innocent and beautiful.

Nod, half close my eyes. It's not my turn to speak.

Left side of his body's turned red by the river of brain and blood, and there's a growing pool beneath his feet.  
"Thank you," it's all he can say, even after I've killed him a second time. His right arm sloughs off, and ends up as a sticky mass of red goo on the floor, "thank you for always being there, even at the end." His left arm, devoid of blood, and weakened from the fight, moves, and lands on my right shoulder - a testament to his determination.

I should have seen this before it even began, and tried to bring him down without this much bloodshed.  
I hate myself so much.

I know what he feels, how he feels, what he thinks. He thinks that this is his fault, that he's the one to blame.  
As always.  
"It's okay," tilt my head and rub my right cheek against his hand. It slowly slides its way onto my face - a part he's always loved touching. "This isn't your fault - none of it is," and I remember it all as his hand travels to my neck. Weak fingers shuffle the red hair around. "It's because I was captured that things ended up like this, but I'll correct everything."

Tears form, and he's so close to death it's not even funny.  
Pistol's dropped, and I release my grip on his neck. A moment of nothing, then he falls straight into my arms, both of which I close around his dying body. Cheek to cheek.  
This is what I've missed the most.

Feeling that you belong. Feeling that you're needed for more than your combat abilities. The ultimate release.

It was a good death, though - the finest of them all.  
Sleep well in the fire, Miles Prower, who dared consider me your mother.

-

VT2 - 2006


	6. Vermilion soldier

* * *

Vermilion soldier 

-

Eight floor, roof, a long, long distance above the ground.  
Home.  
It where I was born, or reborn, rather. Home sweet home.

I've become aware of so many things, now, things that I forgot.

My hair's dark red, very long, and flowing.  
The body I dress in isn't the one I was born with, but, in a way, it's much better than my previous one. Faster, stronger, tougher - like the details claim.  
White plastic serves as skin, covers everything but my face and neck. It's armored, but key areas are covered by an even heavier version, which is blue. Top of my forearms, thighs, shins, chest, groin, upper arms - essentially, at all points where it won't inhibit mobility.  
He decided to keep my face, not to mention my tough-as-nails mindset. My personality couldn't be erased, same with my memories, all of which were locked and barred from me.

But I've got them all, now, and more.

This journey has left me thirsty for revenge, and this is where I claim it - raw and bloody.

"That's an interesting way to put things, dear. Are you sure about this?"

As sure as I'll ever be.

-

Robotnik, inhuman overlord of Mobius, dressed in a black and red jumpsuit, and partially concealed by a yellow cape. Standard outfit for tasteless villains everywhere. Left arm's completely robotic - memento from ancient times.  
He's a towering giant of a man -four-hundred pounds of, not fat, but mechanical components, upgraded organs, and reinforced material. He lifts cars without effort, and chucks them a few, good meters.  
When he punches you, you die instantly.

I know this. I know that it's true.  
Because that's how my first life ended.

"The spire's set to blow itself sky-high in ten minutes, at the stroke of midnight," he's tired, old, worn. He knows that one of us is going to end up dead, and that the chances of the winner dying from its wounds are very high. He's also a mighty foe, and I gave my own mortality for a second chance to try and kill him. Someone, who isn't Snively, preserved that vital part of me that is me - the ego. A rose, a violin, a white mask, but nothing more. It's not a broken memory, it's just all that there is.

A gun, a hundred-and-twenty rounds, two mono-molecular blades, and a body that can kill gods.  
My tools.  
Crouch, fists clenched at my sides. The blades pop out as I get into position.  
"This fight will determine the future of Mobius," we both know that it's a fact, of course. He won last time, but it mustn't be repeated again. "Let's see if you can overcome my new speed."

He regards me, face not betraying even a shred of emotions.  
"I believe it's your turn to begin things."

-

Wild dash, straight for his bulky frame, blades out and at the ready, while he just stands and stares. He's not convinced, not yet.  
Get into a roll, slide in below him. Attempt to cut his legs to shreds as I pass, but he hardly notices. Stop cold behind, in a sitting position - a moment later, I'm in the air.  
His only real vulnerability is the head, and I slash for the back of it with all my might. Gouge holes into the skin, create large gashes that run red, but the damage is barely superficial so far. He spins around, size belying speed, and my gaze meet his. I've missed his silly face, and the insane gleam in his sensor lenses. No time. Left arm's sent up, grabs for me, but my small size saves my life for the first time tonight, and I slip down the trunk known as his arm..

Graceful leap from his left elbow, unholster my gun while spinning through the air like a card.  
Right hand. Aim set on his head.

Fire.

-

He doesn't use weapons, since they only slow him down.  
A might whack, and I realize that I got a bit careless. Sent flying a short distance, after putting a generous amount of dents into his armored head. As expected, he follows, and intends to kill me with one blow, just like last time. My back crashes against the concrete, hard, and I even bounce once. He's somewhere above, waiting, and I roll out of his left fists's way just in time. Floor saves me, and showers me in tiny pieces of gray.

It all comes down to this.  
You can't block his arms; you have to evade them, or risk being crushed. Spin on the ground, cut the metal arm up good to spite him, then roll away from his right fist, which breaks through the floor an inch away from my head.

Roll backwards, get into a crouching position as the momentum dies, restart the firing sequence, which catches him unprepared. Ttwenty rounds point themselves toward his face. The metal protests, compacts itself, and few bullets go through. Brass joins sparks. His face is rapidly losing skin.  
And now I see him, for all he's worth, as he charges me like an angry god, yet I decide to stand my ground, and continue pouring lead into his head, which reels backwards and distorts itself slightly.

There's no time for a jump past him, or even a leap straight into the air, and the only thing available that can save me is a miracle; one which I'm feeling might just hit me today.  
Compress myself as he's about to thunder into me, then slide below him, shredding his groin while the opportunity presents itself.  
He won't have it, of course, and kicks me in the face with his left heel. I can feel my body straining under his might, and it's enough to send me crashing into a sad pile a handful of meters away from him. Dizzy.  
Nothing works.

"You'll sleep now," he remarks, just like last time, but I won't give in.

There's no way. A turn, then.  
He leaps - the fatal moment.

-

How do you kill someone as large and durable as Robotnik?  
You split him, of course - somehow.  
Wait for the wind to blow your way - wait for the violin.

-

I've got full awareness of him, and it's the last move available to us both. Someone will be forced into a checkmate by my last piece; the queen.  
Risky, and even if I win, there's no guarantee that I'll get out this place before it blows.

He's a wrestler, I'm a duelist. Approaching. Two meters.

Wait. Allow him to draw nearer, closer.  
Lower his guard.  
One meter.

Words are whispered by the wind, and I know when, and where, to strike.

-

Inches.  
Awaken.  
Servos cry out in loud protest as I rise into the air, left arm's blade extended, and busy carving. Groin. Abdomen. Something snaps in my right leg. Chest. Like a phoenix. Throat. Left elbow whines, but it's ignored.

Twist myself out of proportions, even damage my pelvic joint in the process, but it doesn't matter. I end up staring right at him, right into his red eyes that, for the first time in severeal decades, know fear.  
My arms act like a pair of scissors, and cleave straight through his throat, despite his super-armor, his pretend invincibility, and his superior size, and I keep rising, even after he's collapsed, and crashed the entire roof to pieces with his body weight, then everything detonates in a giant ball of fire beneath me.

After twenty-one years of sleep, I, Sally Acorn, dead then resurrected, emerge victorious over the most hated person on the planet - the result of only one day of fighting.

Halloween has never been this good, or sported such amazing fireworks.

-

Never before in his life had Snively been so thankful of actually just existing.  
He'd made it out just in time, then things went to hell, and the world turned into a raging inferno.  
However, the explosion looked a bit too small and controlled to be capable of killing his oldest, yet youngest, friend.

A respectful bow, aimed for the burning spire.  
"See you around, princess," he whispered, the pain in his arm all but forgotten.

-

VT2 - 2006.


End file.
